


My Body’s Broken, Yours Is Bent

by EvelynsGrave



Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse), Resident Evil - All Media Types
Genre: And really bad at relationships in general, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Drama, F/M, Family, Friends With Benefits, Friendship/Love, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Jealousy, Leon is a mess, Smut, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, non-BETA’d
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-18
Updated: 2019-12-20
Packaged: 2020-05-14 09:15:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19270258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EvelynsGrave/pseuds/EvelynsGrave
Summary: They’re all about hazy boundaries with a resolution lurking just around the corner. And he’d run away every time it comes closer, only to fold and come right back. He always loses.So why couldn’t he just get it over with?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Consider this a companion piece to my other Cleon fic (When We Were Siamese), as it delves into the same messy, FWB situation... except someone’s getting fed up. Just like the last one, the title is a line from a Placebo song. This work is non-beta’d and kinda long but I hope you enjoy <3

**09:05**  
**Friday**

_You have two new messages._

_New message:_

_Hello, this is Gwen calling from Dr. Halstead’s office. Our records show that you have missed a scheduled appointment with us last Thursday. Please call us back at your earliest convenience to schedule a new appointment. Have a great day and we look forward to seeing you soon._

_Message deleted._

He removes the towel draped around his neck as he walks to the pull-up bar attached to his doorway. Grabbing it with both hands, he lifts himself up for another round of exercise. 

_New message:_

_Hey, Buttchin. How you been? Sorry for not keeping in touch lately. I’ve been fucking busy at work, you won’t believe it. Anyway... I got a mini three-day vacation starting next week, thank god. Call me when you’re free, ok? Hope you’re alright._

He lets go of the bar and walks to the phone as the prompt dictates his options. He presses a button.

_Message saved._

_You have no more new messages._

Grabbing the towel he discarded earlier, he wipes the sweat off his brow as he looks at the calendar on the fridge. It’s the weekend. He’s on an indefinite hiatus, having just finished a mission; her vacation starts in two days. It took her forever to finally respond and his anxiety had been through the roof.

He slides off the exercise gloves from both hands and opens the cabinet for the bottle of the antidepressant-sleeping pill combo he’d been instructed to take. He gives it a little shake and brings it to eye level. There’s still a handful, enough to last him a little less than a month, he estimates. 

Good, he says to himself. Halstead can wait another month. He’d need a new prescription by then. 

“Appointment my round ass,” he mutters under his breath as he opens the fridge door to grab cold water. Even seeing a shrink is a forced requirement in his job. Which made sense in a twisted way, he muses. It’s not that anyone really cares about his well-being. It’s just that he needs to remain functional after reliving his worst nightmare over and over.

This is what happens to good people with the right skillset, he tells himself. He always had an altruistic nature; he wanted to make the world a safer place, and in an odd twist of fate, he lost the one job that he had always worked hard for so he could be forced to take another that actually fulfilled his ultimate goal in bigger ways.

Leon S. Kennedy wanted to be a superhero and he got what he asked for. 

The world needs him and will continue to until he bites the dust and another takes up his mantle. For the mean time, he’s just going to have to be numb. 

With booze. Lots of booze. 

He contemplates on pouring himself a shot, but ultimately decides against having his fifth for the morning. It’s not a better alternative to reverting to smoking, but his job requires a durable pair of lungs more than a functional liver. 

Picking up the phone, he dials a number to make a different appointment. 

**11:16**  
**Monday**

She rents a two-story apartment in a busy part of town. It’s simple but rather spacious for a person supposedly living alone. He knows that isn’t always the case. 

The fact that she had offered for him to stay for the duration of his trip reassured him that she’s living alone for the mean time. She never told him directly, but he’s not dumb; he knows that she was, and might still be, seeing someone else. 

Not that he has any right to be hurt. If anything, he deserves to be. 

Shaking the thought off, he looks around, scanning the ceiling, the walls, the decor. She’s revamped everything since the last time he stayed over. 

She has her hair up in the usual ponytail; her thighs looked toned and silky in daisy dukes. It’s barely noticeable, but at this point, he’s able to tell that she’s wearing a hint of makeup, her lashes looking darker and lips a little glossy. 

“Are the decorations and clutter triggering you yet, Mr. Minimalist?” She teases. 

“As soon as I walked in,” he replies. “I actually like it. It’s very... you.” 

“Thanks,” she leans on the kitchen island to give him a knowing look. “Go bring your bag upstairs while I make some coffee.”

He knows what that look means. She’s trying to assure him that no one else is sharing the place with her. He climbs the staircase.

She had painted the walls of her room red. There are posters and pictures hanging in frames. In the center of the queen bed, he spots the brown teddy bear he had given her last year sitting between pillows. The lion stuffed toy he’d received from her is propped in his bed in the same manner, miles away in his home. 

He inspects the pictures on the walls. 

There’s several of her with groups of friends, all of them strangers to him; there’s a couple of her as a child, one of them with her brother. He drops his duffel bag in front of a picture of her and Sherry, their arms around each other.

How she’s grown, he thinks. Her hair is up on a ponytail too. He’s not seen her since their traumatic separation. She knows nothing about what he does now, nor the bargain he had to take to ensure her safety.

Averting his eyes from the picture, he shakes the thought away. On the side of the bed, leaning against the wall, he spots an acoustic guitar. He picks it up and plucks the strings. He tightens a couple of knobs and rests one foot up on a chair, lifting the guitar and placing it on top of his knee, and starts strumming.

A few moments later he notices her in the corner of his eye, arms crossed and leaning against the doorframe. He stops playing. 

“How long have you been standing there,” he asks. 

“Long enough to recall the title of the song you’re playing,” she responds. “You never told me you could play.” 

“You never told me you owned a guitar,” he says, putting the instrument down. 

“That’s Chris’s,” she says, uncrossing her arms. “He asked me to keep it, but I never learned how to play.” 

“How’s he doing?” He asks. He’s met the guy before. Fit and strong, the kind who would beat up anyone who’d done as much as lay their eyes on his precious little sister. 

If he only knew. 

“Still trying to save the world,” she shrugs. 

“Aren’t we all.”

**20:11**

In his first trip to her place, they went bar-hopping and have gotten intoxicated. They went bowling after and it was the most fun they’ve had until they got kicked out for rowdiness. 

“It’s going to take a whole pool of alcohol to get me to that level of drunkenness now,” he told her when she mused about doing a repeat. She laughed. 

He wasn’t joking. 

He took her out to their favorite bar in the area instead and they both decided to come home early. 

“I can’t believe you managed to fit everything in that duffel bag,” she says, handing him a cold bottle of beer from her fridge.

“A skill I’ve mastered as of late,” he replies, recalling the times he had to arrange his arsenal so they would fit in an attache case during missions. 

Something keeps nagging at him at the back of his mind. 

That boyfriend of hers. 

Does she still have one? Is he aware that he’s around? 

Is this considered cheating? 

Screw it, he says to himself. 

“So. How are you and whatshisface,” he says in pretense. He knows a little too much about him more than he’d like her to know. 

She stops whatever she’s doing in the sink to look at him. “Carlyle,” she says, then returns to what she’s doing. “We didn’t work out.” Her tone betrayed a hint of discomfort. 

“...Oh,” he says, trying and failing not to sound thrilled. He casually takes a sip from the bottle in his hand. “Sorry to hear that.”

She scoffs. “Sure you are. You never liked him.” 

“I never said anything of the sort.” 

“Come on, Lee,” she laughs. “You’re a lousy liar.”

He shrugs. “I did say I wanted to practice roundhouse kicks on his face, I suppose.” 

“You’re jealous...?”

He pauses, caught off guard. Is that a question? Or an unsure statement? 

He’d only spent the entire time they were apart seething in hatred and thinking of a thousand creative ways of visiting unannounced so he can show the bastard that it’s not her brother he should be afraid of, but him— the “best friend”. 

If only he didn’t feel so betrayed by her as well, irrational as it was.

He gets up from the couch. “I’ll be in the balcony.” 

**20:16**

He sat on one end of the outdoor sofa, staring into the horizon with his beer in hand. The breeze is cold but soothing. Amidst the city lights, he can make out the mountain tops in the distance. In his mind he wondered if Raccoon City felt like this before it was razed by the selfishness of human curiosity. 

The whole apartment reminded him of his fresh-faced days in the academy. Once upon a time, he was excited for the thrill of mystery and action; now he can only look back and contemplate on what his life could have been if he had chosen not to come to the city that fateful night. 

Happiness will never be a guarantee. But he’d be less cautious. Less angry. Would they have worked out, he pondered, then realized they would never have met in the first place. 

As if playing a joke on his somber mood, he hears a familiar sad tune playing from a radio from inside her room. It was the song he was strumming on her guitar earlier. Nutshell by Alice In Chains. 

She comes out to sit on the other end of the sofa, beer in hand. 

“Perfect timing, I was just starting to wallow in my own misery,” he says.

“When have you not been wallowing in your own misery,” she jokes, then quickly realized that she might have hit too close to home. “Kidding. You need to teach me how to play that thing.”

He brushes it off. “Last time it was Metallica,” he mused, eyes on the horizon. “Off-roading while blasting Fuel and the rest of Reload.”

“Oh yeah.”

“Now we’re marinating in melancholy to Jar of Flies. What’s the theme for the next one, Claire Bear?”

“Some pop shit that you despise,” she takes a sip from her bottle. “Sherry loves the mainstream stuff. You owe her a visit.”

He says nothing, feeling a little hurt. 

“You don’t have to tell her anything, Leon.” 

“I know,” he responds. That was an understatement, he says to himself. He’d spare her the guilt the truth will bring, although they wouldn’t be able to hide it from her forever. He’d only hesitated because he’s never been good at lying. She’s much older now, and the idea of her figuring it out is a dreadful thing to imagine. “How is she doing?”

“Pretty good. She misses you,” she responds. “And she still asks that stupid question.” 

“What question?”

She hesitated for a second. “If we’re boyfriend and girlfriend.”

Laughter erupted between them followed by an awkward pause. Only the music filled the air for a good minute. 

“I’ll try to see her sometime this year,” he says, finally breaking the silence. “Would be nice if you can come with me.”

“I’ll try,” she answers. “Just be prepared to be asked the same question, I guess.”

He says nothing. 

“It’s freezing out here.” She gets up from her seat to go back inside the apartment. 

He lets out a soft sigh once she’s gone. 

_No, we’re not together, because I’m broken and can’t fix myself._

Shit’s complicated. Don’t grow up too fast, he imagines himself telling Sherry.

**21:25**

They sat in front of the TV on opposite ends of the couch while watching a stupid movie that none of them were paying attention to. 

An impending sense of doom has taken over him. He subtly looks at her as she stirred uncomfortably in her position. Maybe she’s still heartbroken over her breakup. Maybe she’s annoyed that he’d hijacked her mini-vacation. 

He won’t tell her, but the weeks of waiting for her response almost drove him insane from longing. But now that they’re beside each other, all he feels is apprehension. 

He just wishes he wasn’t so ambivalent. 

He has so much love to give but doesn’t want to lose himself. He craves for her touch and affection but doesn’t like the vulnerability that comes with giving it back. 

He’d rather have nothing than let her be his everything.

It’s easier playing cat and mouse with a ghost. Someone elusive and unable to reciprocate is therefore unable to truly hurt him. It might be the coward’s option, but it’s the safer one. He could play that game forever. 

With Claire Redfield though, he knows he’s going to run out of time and that she’s going to run out of patience. 

After all, this is a woman who will never run out of options. She’s attractive and had retained a captivating personality and sense of humor despite all the shit she’d gone through. She’s fun and a bit brash, yet is motherly and mature when it matters. She’s scared but full of hope. She’s kind but doesn’t take anybody’s bullshit. 

Except his.

For years, in fact. They’re all about hazy boundaries with a resolution lurking just around the corner. And he’d run away every time it comes closer, only to fold and come right back. He always loses.

So why couldn’t he just get it over with? 

“Claire...?”

Just like the last time, she stares back at him, waiting, anticipating.

And just like the last time, he freezes with a conflicted look on his face. He wants to say something— but he couldn’t quell the whirlwind of emotions going on inside him, the storm of contradictions, the push and pull happening at the same time.

He closes his eyes and lets out a long, defeated sigh.

She had moved closer before he even noticed. She takes his face in her hands and brings a finger to his lips. 

“Shhh.” 

**21:42**

They found themselves yet again in that familiar situation of some part of him being inside of her. Not that any of them put up any real effort to fight it off to begin with. 

They’ve gotten quite experienced at it, although not always with each other in particular. He always thought she’d laugh at him if he ever admitted that his encounters are not as many as she imagined. He’s never been too comfortable with meaningless intimacy despite what his looks or demeanor imply through the years.

Pinned to the edge of the bed, a moan of bliss escapes her throat after every thrust. He holds up her thighs to allow himself to shove at that perfect angle that hit her just right on the spot. 

Her features are illuminated by the yellow light from the lone nightstand; eyes shut tightly, mouth open wide. Her breasts bounced up and down with his thrusts. He felt his cock grow more swollen at the sight and didn’t think that was possible. He’d jacked off so many times to the thought of her tits. God, he thought, he could write poems about how perfect they are. 

Her moans grow louder and her eyes open— he feels her clench around him, twitching at first then completely clamping down on his length in waves.

And just as she was slowing down, he feels himself about to follow, his perfectly paced rhythm becoming erratic. Her arms wrap around him tighter, pulling him closer. 

“Claire, I’m close,” he tries to say. 

“Come inside. We’ll be fine,” she assures him. 

So he spills his seed inside of her, stifling his moans into her neck. 

After catching his breath, he tries to slip out of her, but he feels her strong thighs hold him in place. He looks at her and finds himself staring into imploring blue eyes. 

“Stay inside of me,” she whispers tenderly. How could he not oblige? He settles back down slowly, shifting slightly to the side so as not to put his full weight on her and to be able to rest his face close to hers. 

Her breaths feel hot against his skin. She reaches out to touch his cheek with a hand. 

“I know what you wanted to say earlier,” she whispers. “You know I’ve always been here for you.”

“You have.”

“Then what are you so afraid of? I’m not going to hurt you.” 

He shakes his head softly. 

“...I’m not the same person, Claire. I’ve been damaged.”

_I’m not the rookie anymore. If I show you what I’m becoming, you’ll run away._

She smiles, but her face shows absolute disagreement.

“So have I. We’ve both been scarred. But that doesn’t make us unworthy of love.”

_But I’ve always been unworthy of you._

As if having heard his thoughts, she tightens the embrace of her thighs on his hips and brings her face closer, brushing her thumb on his lips tenderly.

“Give us a chance, Leon.”

**19:22**  
**Friday — The Next Week**

They got tired of eating out so he decided to cook something. She says she can never make anything edible but he insisted that she helps out. 

“I’ll entrust you with the fillings. You just gotta mash the potatoes with everything,” he tells her. “You couldn’t possibly mess that up, right?”

She punches him lightly on the bicep. She takes a stockpot and starts to fill it with water. “Props to you for trying to make your own dough, though!”

“That’s what makes it fun,” he says as he starts kneading the dough mixture he made. 

He winks at her. She gives him a look of adoration in return.

They were talking about where to take Sherry on their next reunion when the cordless phone on the counter behind her rang. 

He’s not blind. He can see who’s calling as the number flashes on the small screen. 

She looks behind her and realizes what’s going on. In a near panic, she quickly excuses herself to pick it up before it goes to voicemail. Her hushed voice slowly fades as she goes upstairs. 

She didn’t come down until he had finished cooking and completely lost his appetite. 

**05:40**  
**Saturday**

When faced with two options that would both lead to anguish, it makes sense to choose the one that’s less painful. 

It will grant him some self-preservation, even if he comes out defeated and hurt just the same. 

He’s looking out the window from her kitchen. The sun had barely risen, but the streets are getting noisier. He checks his watch. It will take about 40 minutes to get to the airport if he leaves now.

He hears her come down the stairs.

Now here comes the inevitable. 

Her arms wrap around his waist— but he gently frees himself from her touch and turns around to meet the betrayed look in her eyes. She moves her gaze ever so slightly to the duffel bag sitting on the barstool before returning it to meet his, pleading for an explanation. 

He gives her nothing but a look of contempt. 

“I thought you were ready,” she almost whispers. 

“Don’t act like I’m too irreplaceable,” he scoffs. “I haven’t even left and you’re already talking.”

She shakes her head.

“I was telling him to fuck off last night. If that changes your mind,” she crosses her arms. 

“Didn’t know that takes half an hour to do.”

“Please. I could have declined that call and we’d still be here. Because you keep finding excuses for us not to work.”

_Because I feel threatened,_ he wanted to say, but something different comes out of his mouth. “Now you can ask him to come back as soon as I’m out of here.”

“Yeah, how dare I be involved with someone else, right? Because I’m supposed to wait for you, right? I’m supposed to be patient and lonely while you make up your goddamn mind about me.”

_You’re right. I’m being selfish. But I’m just trying not to get hurt._

He grabs his bag from the barstool and starts to walk away but she steps in front of him, blocking his path. 

“The problem here is that you can’t regulate your emotions like a damn adult. You ask to get close then you run away. You think I enjoy being played like this?” 

_I’m not playing games. I’m lost and I don’t know what to do._ “What do you want from me?” He says instead. 

“I should be asking you that question! You’re the one who keeps coming back. It’s getting fucking old!”

His cellphone rings. He looks at her looking at him— it’s all in her face, the wrath, the disappointment, and he deserves more of it— but the damn phone won’t stop ringing.

He takes it out of his pocket. 

“Kennedy.

...Copy that. I’ll be there.”

He puts it back and hears her sigh deeply. He keeps his gaze downward and refuses to look her in the eyes. 

“Now you have a real excuse.”

To his surprise, she stomps towards the door and opens it for him. 

Holding it open, she says nothing more; he walks to it and against his better judgment, he stops to look at her one last time.

It’s written all over her face: 

_I’m done waiting for you._

**10:12**  
**Four Months Later**

His left eye is completely bloodshot. It reminds him of Birkin’s one large eye that always turns a darker color when he’s getting fucked up with bullets. His nose is broken, but there’s nothing to be done about it. Maybe surgery if he wishes, the doctor said, but only advised it if it interferes with his breathing. There’s a cut on his bottom lip that effectively kept him from unnecessarily talking. 

Everything hurts. 

The last mission was a shit show. Someone fucked up real bad and got him captured along with two other agents. They beat him up real good. He was in the process of getting waterboarded when rescue came. 

At least he didn’t get raped. They were talking about how pretty he was when they stripped him before beating him up. 

He opens the cabinet. He’s been taking antibiotics that’s making him shit like crazy. The pain pill he’s been prescribed works for about an hour— but he’s supposed to take one only every _four_ hours. 

He’s got a million pills sitting in different bottles but none left of the antidepressant- sedative that he badly needs.

Thank god for booze.

He opens his email. There’s a memo from work warning him that psychologist visits are mandatory and that missing another would lead to ‘disciplinary action’.

He scrolls down. 

Nothing from her. 

He walks to the phone, feeling defeated, and dials a number. 

“Dr. Halstead’s office—

“This is Leon Kennedy. I want to set up an appointment.”

Next Wednesday it is. He’d be sure to ask for a higher dose. 

He replays his voicemails for the third time that morning. 

_You have no new messages._

_Saved message:_

_Hey, Buttchin._

Deep sadness turns into desperation as the sound of her voice fills his ears. He pours himself another shot. 

Of all the quiet times he had reflected alone, it was ironically in that moment of chaos, when he was naked in a room full of murderous strangers, that he had found himself. There was no feeling of overwhelming regret or bitterness; only steadfastness and conviction that the world is worth fighting for, and that he wants to live and be happy. 

In that brief moment, he saw everything through her eyes when she spoke of love and chances. 

And he had pushed her away with his petty arguments, because in his mind, all good things come to an end, and it’s easier to be the one who said goodbye than to be the one who was left. 

Forget the emails and the calls. He’s going to fly to her place to see her, even if it’s the last time she’ll allow him to. He doesn’t care that he looks like a train wreck. He doesn’t care if there’s someone else— he’ll tell him to fuck off, that he’s got nothing on him because he’s her best friend who’s been with her to hell and back— and that he sincerely wants to be more, but first things first— he needs to fix himself, and to tell her how sorry he is.

And when all is said and done, maybe he’ll be worthy of her. 

**02:30**  
**The Following Morning**

He stands in front of her door. He brought nothing else but the clothes he has on. 

No duffel bags. That’s too presumptuous.

He knocks. 

He watches her expression turn from sleepy and annoyed, to surprised and somewhat panicked, to horrified and concerned as she peeks out of the door wearing a loose, tattered shirt. 

“I’m so sorry...”

At least that’s what he wanted to say, but he could barely move his split lip and his voice cracks as he breaks into a sob that he’s been trying to fight. Snot comes dripping out of his swollen nose. 

She swings the door open all the way. 

“...Did my brother do this to you?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I intended for this story to be a one-shot. However it’s just so satisfying to give it a proper ending. I’m also itching to write more Cleon. So here goes!

> Like the naked leads the blind  
>  I know I’m selfish, I’m unkind  
>  Sucker love I always find  
>  Someone to bruise and leave behind  
>  \- Every You Every Me, Placebo

**09:53**

Comfortable silence shared between people is a precious thing that’s often taken for granted. When that silence becomes all but comfortable, when it turns into a painful reminder of what has and what could have been, that’s when one realizes just how badly they fucked up. 

His whole body throbbed and ached underneath his clothes, but the split on his lip is the worst, for not only does it hurt with mere contact with the air— it also renders him almost mute, mouth frozen shut lest he pries the gash wider— during a time when he can’t afford to keep quiet. 

Not now. Not when he has so much to say. 

Right across him, she sits, suffering from the painful silence with him. The cup of coffee lays cold and ignored in front of her. The focus of her eyes shift restlessly as much as her body does in her seat. She’s clearly mortified by the way he looks. As she should. This is his appearance finally catching up to his treatment of her. 

Hideous. 

She bites at her thumb. Then stops. Rinse and repeat. 

“I’ll see if I could request some time off,” she breaks the cycle and the silence. 

“No,” he protests too quickly and feels the flesh of his lip rip apart further. “Don’t. I’m okay.”

“You’re okay?” She says incredulously. “You left your medicine and clothes at home and you look like utter shit.”

_Letting me in is enough. Talking to me is enough. More than enough. I can’t mess up your life more than I already have by making you skip work._

Too many words and all he can do is utter short sentences like a neanderthal learning english. So he tries to make it short and straight to the point in his head— but she gets up from her seat before he can blurt anything out, returning with a shopping bag that she puts on the table. One by one, she brings out its contents: a hoodie, shirts, a pack of boxers. _What the fuck_ — he says silently with hand gestures and head shakes, one good eye narrowed as the other had already closed from swelling. 

“What? You think you’d fit in my tank tops? If you aren’t such a genius you would’ve at least brought another underwear,” she chides. 

_I wasn’t expecting you to let me in, let alone let me stay._ He hangs his head down in shame and weeps bitterly. Again. 

“I don’t deserve it.”

Ripping flesh. Warmth. Blood. Pain. 

“Oh yeah? Then why’d you come here?”

He lifts his ugly crying face to look up at hers.

He promised himself that he’d give her nothing but full honesty if she ever talks to him again. So what’s he gonna tell her? That he’s sorry and he needs her? He wants her to take him back?

Can he be selfish one last time, for honesty’s sake?

He doesn’t know where to begin, so he just gently pushes the shopping bag away. Unamused, she places a hand to her hip.

“Just... stop,” she takes the bag away. 

“You’d do the same for me,” she tells him, then leaves him alone.

Would he really? 

Back then, when she came running to him, unsure and afraid, hoping to be welcomed with open arms and that there’d still be something left to come back to, he left her stranded— and has been shoving it in her face ever since. 

**???**

_It was a cold, moonless night when for the first time since escaping the city, they were finally going to sleep on a bed. Luckily for him, she proved to be the best partner one could hope for in a massively shitty situation. She was good at lying and stealing when it meant their survival. In a store in the middle of nowhere, she charmed the fuck out of the smitten teenager behind the counter, told him the rehearsed story of crashing her bike to acquire them free supplies. In a diner, she quickly nabbed a box of cigarettes and a lighter from a table. He’d scolded her for that one, told her it was risky and unnecessary with a cigarette bobbing up and down his mouth._

_She laughed at his face, shrill and full of snorts. Strangers to each other they were, they grew comfortable around each other too quickly, thanks to hormones and pure elation from being alive._

_That cold, moonless night in the balcony, as they blew wispy clouds in the darkness, they finally had time for proper introductions._

_“I’m Claire Redfield, mechanical engineering student and orphan. My parents died in a terrible car crash. Currently on a quest to look for my brother who knows he’s all I got left but never bothered to tell me where he fucked off to.”_

_He took her hand and shook it firmly. “Leon Scott Kennedy. Totally regretting not having listened to my father who wanted me to be an airline pilot. Currently not on a quest to search for my mother who never bothered to tell me where she fucked off to.”_

_“A match made in heaven,” she grinned. “So where we going, Officer?”_

_“I was gonna ask if you got family in the state, but never mind,” he responded. “My dad’s house, maybe? A couple of states away in a small town in the middle of nowhere.”_

_“Sweet. I happen to have the skills to acquire us a vehicle, if you know what I mean.”_

_“I did not put that idea in your head.”_

_“Desperate times call for desperate measures. Fuck the police— no offense,” she winked. “Let’s hope you coming home with a woman and a child wouldn’t be such an unwelcome surprise.”_

_She had him chuckling softly, wincing from the way his shoulders moved. “Quite the opposite,” he told her, “The last thing he said to me before I left was that I better come back with a wife and a bunch of grandkids he can spoil. So if anything... he’d be disappointed at the number of children.”_

_She couldn’t help but let out a snort. “Slow down mister, we just had our first date!”_

_He’s never talked to a girl that way before._

_The filter was all that’s left of his cigarette. He lifted it up and scrutinized it at eye-level. “Did I mention that I just quit smoking? This tastes like literal shit.”_

_“Maybe you just haven’t gotten rid of the sewers in your mouth,” she got up from her seat slowly and lazily to lead the way back into their modest quarters before turning around to tell him— _Fuck me, I forgot to get us toothbrushes_ — but the muted television in the room had already robbed her of his attention._

_The light from the moving images danced across both of their somber faces: Raccoon City blasted into non-existence on repeat. It was as real and horrid as watching it the first time just the day before, and he saw her eyes dart from the image on the screen to the girl sleeping peacefully behind them near the corner._

_“Hey,” he whispered to her, shattering her thoughts and casting them away. He inched closer and continued, “We’ll be okay.”_

_His voice shook, afraid and uncertain as she was; she looked back at him and blinked, once, twice, pleading silently for reassurance that he gave with no hesitation._

_“As long as we stick together, we’ll be fine, remember?”_

_Before they knew it, they had wrapped their arms around each other, and in spite of the firm grip of their hands, both of them were shaking._

_“We made it. We actually made it, oh my god,” she blurted out coherently before her throat tightened and warm tears escaped from her eyes._

_“I know, I know, we’re alive,” he said faintly, his chin cradled on her head. He rocked her gently back and forth. She buried her face on her chest, inhaling cheap, fresh motel soap that was the scent of him, and she cried silently, rubbing her face on his shoulder—_

_“...Ouch.”_

_“Shit, I’m so sorry,” she giggled in embarrassment as she gently pried herself away and stepped back._

_“You’re fine,” he laughed._

_“No,_ you’re _fine,” she giggled again as he watched her wipe off her tears with her fingertips._

_For the days and weeks that followed, chaste hugs turned into light goodnight kisses on the cheek, and goodnight kisses on the cheek turned to soft kisses on the lips that were always threatening to turn into a hungry exchange whenever they took too long to pull back (they had acquired toothbrushes by that time). The hands she had always tried to carefully keep away from his shoulder now always made their way up to his neck, lacing around it, or to his handsome face to cup it. Ever polite, his hands stayed at the small of her back, and she’d give him permission by guiding them elsewhere herself._

_As they moved closer and closer to their destination, he grew more impatient to take her home._

**22:48**

He wakes up to find her hovered over him, sitting on the bed and blocking the light from the lamp. 

She had a look of concern on her face, eyebrows slightly furrowed. Briefly disoriented, he wondered if the year was 1998, if they were in a cheap motel en route to Indiana, for he had opened his eyes to this exact same moment many times before.

He stirs. Even his body felt the same as back then, sore and beaten. Everything starts coming back in a slow haze. She went to work late that morning and came home with medical supplies. After dinner, she had placed a couple of painkillers near his plate. She placed a lidocaine patch over his three broken ribs. 

They’re all the same tender things she’d done before. Only back then, they didn’t eat away at his pride or what’s left of it (there’s nothing).

The year wasn’t 1998. The place wasn’t a cheap motel. 

There were no nervous, flirty exchanges, no goodnight kisses, chaste or longing. Just uncomfortable, pregnant silence, a reminder of what has and what could have been. 

He’s in her apartment, in her guest room where he had exiled himself and fell dead from exhaustion brought about by shame and guilt that were somehow worse than the physical pain he’s in. 

He came here, brazen and decided, and she turned him to milquetoast by being Claire Redfield. 

“Remember when I always used to stay up late? I’d watch over you and Sherry, and I can’t ever sleep until you guys were asleep,” she said softly, and he wondered if he had a projector over his head that only she could see, his thoughts broadcasted on it, for she somehow always knows what’s on his mind.

“You had nightmares all the time,” she continues. “You’d squirm and reopen your wound. You woke me up. But on a good night, you really were a deep-sleeper.”

It wasn’t a nightmare he just had. Far from it. It was a memory of happier times, good old times full of hope, untainted by bad choices and awful circumstances.

“Was I very different back then?”

She shrugs. “You still squirm a bit too much. I just got done sticking your patch back on.” 

The white patch was there, over the right side of his torso, and he gently places a hand over it.

Slowly, she lays down on her side, facing him, the worried look never leaving her face. “Tell me... is it because I left?”

So there it is. He’d prayed every moment for this since his arrival because he doesn’t know when, or how, or where to start; finally, a demand for explanations that he will never be prepared for. 

“I came back, but you never let me back in,” she went on, “You kept me close, but you never really trusted me again, didn’t you?”

“You... you had to look for your brother.” A sorry attempt to justify the very thing he had condemned her for.

Unconvinced, she shakes her head. “But the way I left— it was wrong, and stupid, and I didn’t stick to the plan.” There was an odd conviction in her voice, as if she was convincing the both of them— of what? That she deserved all his bitterness and distance?

 _As long as we stick together, we’ll be fine._ He believed her because she believed it. There was never going to be a puppy or a parrot. There wasn’t going to be any more children, especially. But they’d have a home, and he wouldn’t take forever to recover. Just a few weeks and he’ll be ready to join her side in her quest to search for the man she loved the most. 

That was the plan before she decided to abandon ship midway to their destination. 

“That tells me everything,” she remarks on his silence. 

What’s he supposed to say? It was very tempting to whip out the dreaded phrase of _it’s not you, it’s me_. He’d add _it’s a little bit of you as well_ for the sake of pure honesty, but there was no need to hammer the point, and this isn’t truly about what’s wrong with _her._

“I’ve— I’ve got issues, Claire Bear,” he responds finally.

“No shit.”

She awkwardly laughs softly while saying it. It was random and infectious. Now they’re both snickering, and for the first time since his arrival, there was something in the air other than misery. 

As it died down naturally, he finally says, “Maybe we’re both wrong... but you never deserved all the shit I put you through. I kept running away...”

“Because it’s hard to admit you were wrong?”

“Because I don’t deserve you, and it scared me that you’d realize that and leave again.”

Ignoring the itching and throbbing on his lip, he sighs deeply and braces himself.

“I was so happy back then, Claire. I really was. You and Sherry... you made me feel loved and wanted and cared for. I felt like I could take on the world. And I’ve squandered my shot to feel like that again. I want— I want to feel that way again. I felt that I was at my best... well, sort of.”

“Sort of?” Her voice broke and she swallowed hard. 

He nods. “Yeah. I was wounded and anemic. And y’know... kinda hung up on a liar who used me.”

“Used you— and was going to kill you. You keep forgetting that part,” she chides. “You mourned her every damn night.” 

He grins at her, teasing. “You’re jealous?”

“You’re a moron.”

A soft, hearty laugh escapes his throat. “Don’t be. It wasn’t her on my mind when I was about to die.”

She laughs, but rolls her eyes so hard she probably gave herself a headache. Then she pauses, the smile from her lips slowly fading, sighing twice before asking, “What’s gonna happen now?”

He scoots closer. She tenses up in response. The pain in his heart couldn’t be any worse than the pain in his body. 

“I’m going to fix myself if it’s the last thing I’ll do. And I’m not gonna ask you to hold out for me. I’m not gonna ask you to take me back even if that’s what I want. If I had blown my chances— so be it. That’s not going to stop me from doing what’s right.”

A tear had fallen from her eye. 

He reaches out to her face and wipes it with his thumb.

“I’m just asking you to forgive me, Claire. That’s what I came here for. I am sorry. For everything. I want to hear you say that you still love me... but just tell me that you forgive me.”

The uncomfortable silence hung in the air once more. 

So he allowed himself to be selfish for the sake of honesty that he owed her. He could only hope that she’d return the favor no matter— that she’d tell him if she’s done with him or if she couldn’t bring herself to take his sorry; that she wouldn’t do to him what he had done to her, wouldn’t draw out his punishment until a brush with death and a grim reminder of lost chances slapped her in the face.

His life is on a downward spiral. If he couldn’t be happy ever again, he had decided that he’s better off dead, and with the direction fate has taken him, that’s a thing that’s too easy to achieve. He’s always dying out there. 

He finds himself staring right into her— waiting, anticipating; it’s his turn to plead and beg, and he wants to say, _give us a chance,_ just as she’d begged before when they were joined as one. 

He won’t ever be ready for what her answer will be, but then again, he never was ready for her anyway— even now. 

At least not yet.

“... You’ll always be my best friend.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More to come <3


	3. Chapter 3

> All alone in space and time  
>  There’s nothing here but what here’s mine  
>  Something borrowed, something blue  
>  \- Every You Every Me, Placebo

**14:54  
Thursday**

Maybe he doesn’t know how to deal with his feelings, and that’s what got him up shit creek. 

Not maybe, definitely. 

**_No contact for 45 days  
Suspension from duty pending medical clearance_**

So said the papers handed to him during his last visit to the physician. A month and a half to heal and get his shit together before he’s thrown back into the fray. A paid vacation under less than ideal circumstances, but a vacation nonetheless. It isn’t his first rodeo with injury and long recuperation periods. But the mind and the soul don’t heal quite like the body does. 

You can’t slap ice packs or lidocaine patches over attachment problems and abandonment issues. 

He needed a shrink for those. He’s got one. He had begrudgingly scheduled an appointment before his meltdown, and he came home from the session feeling shittier than when he walked in. 

Apparently, he has a lot to work on. 

In the world out there, he accomplished near-impossible tasks with efficiency and discipline. 

In his own apartment, when the tasks become too personal, he procrastinated. 

Such is the coping method of a hero who fights tooth and nail to save others but neglects himself. It was easier to tackle and fix what was wrong with the world than to look in the mirror and scrutinize his own self. 

He scrubbed the bathroom spotless. He sorted his clothes and dumped a quarter of it to donation. He sifted the litter a thousand times for the tiniest ball of cat shit. He re-arranged the furniture. He amped up the home security in a laughable attempt to keep out the devil in red who had a knack of showing up when he’s vulnerable, eager to prey on his weaknesses. 

That’s a start. 

Weed out the toxic relationships to make way for healthy ones. Mend the broken ones that matter, especially the one with himself. 

As expected, he found remnants of his sole best friend in the entire universe everywhere. 

Last night, when he couldn’t sleep from doing nothing substantial all day long, she was in his shitty movie marathons. Early this morning, as he inhaled the cool, polluted city air in his balcony 43 floors up, she was in his cup of coffee. Ten minutes ago, while he rested between these mundane activities, she was in his cigarette break. 

She haunted his apartment. She had a toothbrush sitting next to his in the master bathroom. She had bedroom slippers stored in the entryway closet. She had pajamas and tattered shirts folded neatly in the dresser. When he woke up at 3 in the morning, the lion stuffed toy that was her present to him last Christmas stared him in the face. The round plastic eyes mockingly focused on that face of his that was re-arranged by fists and boots during that botched mission not so long ago.

 _Cry more, Kennedy,_ it smiled.

And so he did. 

She dwelled in his playlist most of all. When certain songs came on, it was hard not to think of that time in 1998, when he was on the passenger seat of the car she had hotwired, sweating bullets and scanning vigilantly for patrol cars. 

So much for out of sight, out of mind. 

Now, slumped on the dining chair with nothing left to do, he thought about all the people in his life that he had pushed away who aren’t named Claire Redfield. 

There aren’t too many people in his life to begin with— but now that he really thinks about it, the number of friends that he has— with her exemption— is zero. 

A lonely person to the core. 

He has lost the ability to maintain his relationships, and was never any good at starting new ones to begin with.

He’s only ever formed one, ever since the aftermath of Raccoon City, and he managed to blow it to smoldering pieces.

Two. He had formed two.

It didn’t take long to remember that Claire isn’t the only lady in his life that he has been running away from. 

He sighs audibly and scratches the back of his head. Noel the Nebelung had joined him in his misery on the dining table. It lays on its side, relaxed and quiet, long, bushy tail swaying back and forth. Like the stuffed lion propped in his bed, it’s staring right into his soul, its green eyes narrowed and judgmental. Piercing. 

He stares at it right back.

“You’re the only living thing in the world I haven’t pushed away,” he says to it. “Don’t that just make you feel super special?”

It holds his gaze for a couple of seconds before blinking slowly and looking elsewhere, and he could swear it made an expression that it was tired of his shit. 

 

 **07:31  
Tuesday**

The other eye is still shut.

The nose is still swollen. 

The bruises are black and ugly. 

The gash on the lip is fresh and bloody and is still threatening to rip apart.

Not yet. 

Not like this. 

 

 **08:12  
Monday— Two Weeks Later**

The other eye has opened. 

The nose is less swollen.

The bruises have turned yellow-green.

The motherfucking tear on the lip is still there— but it’s not gaping anymore. 

It doesn’t hurt to talk.

It wouldn’t hurt to smile. 

This will do.

 

**10:20  
Wednesday**

The house, as he expected, is massive. 

The wife— Stefanie— greeted him in a lilac dress. She shook his hand firmly and said nothing about the traces of trauma scattered on his face. She’s slim and tall, prim and proper— she asks if he wants any tea or coffee which he politely declines. A former equestrian turned painter as stated in the documents he had unearthed during his avid procrastination. The husband, Dr. Hugh Levinson, is a respected epidemiologist and a board member of a health organization known for its extensive medical missions abroad. 

They were, he was assured, wealthy but good people who were not blessed with any children. Not that he had any say, at that time, on the decision that they were going to be Sherry Birkin’s adoptive parents. It was just a way of saying that the other end of the bargain is fulfilled, that the child indeed would be in good hands. 

He didn’t care then and he doesn’t care now about their wealth or education. All that ever matters is that they’re treating her right. That they shower her with attention in a way her own parents never did. That they love her as much as he and Claire do. 

The bitterness he felt at being the government’s lapdog is palpable now— but he’d gladly take the job over and over if it guaranteed her a life full of happiness and safety. As soon as she took his hand and swung it back and forth as they walked toward the sunlight together, he knew that he was willing to die to protect her. 

She’s always been worth it. 

Sometimes, he wonders if she knows just how much she meant to him, for he certainly failed at showing it since they’ve parted. It really wasn’t because he didn’t care enough. Far from it.

It was because she took with her a big part of him that he willingly offered and would never get back— and, as it had always been, that made him feel afraid and vulnerable.

He hears loud, excited footsteps by the staircase. He looks up. Her blonde hair had grown past her shoulders. She was much taller than he last remembered. Her face lit up— and she practically rushes toward the bottom, leaps at him, clinging on to him in a tight embrace, so tight that the contact with his sore ribs made him hiss. She doesn’t seem to notice as she buries her face in his chest. His throat tightens. His jaw aches. His nose tingles. 

He purses his lips together to stop himself from crying in front of the ladies. 

“I thought you’d never visit me! What took you so long!” She cries and lets go. 

He rubs the back of his hand repeatedly over his nose to get rid of the tingling. _I know I’ve been an ass but I’m working on it—_ he couldn’t exactly say it out loud, so he just lets out a small laugh and shrugs. 

“I’ve missed you,” she says and hugs him again, softly this time. “I wish Claire’s here.”

 _That was the plan, kiddo, before some dumb fuck sabotaged it._

“Yeah,” he wraps an arm around her gently. “Me too.”

 

**10:38**

The garden is much more massive than the house itself. 

There’s a fountain in the middle. All sorts of flowers lined the paths and climbed the walls. With extravagance like this, there should be no question that her basic needs are being met. That better be the fucking case, he thinks. The real question, as it tends to go with these types of career-driven parents, is if she’s getting enough guidance and attention. 

Yes, she swears up and down. Her father is busy, as expected, but takes tremendous effort to spend time with the family. Her mother is everything she could ever ask for— attentive, sensitive, and most of all empathetic. She doesn’t try too hard to force herself into her life, but always made sure that she can talk to her about anything under the sun, her real parents, for example. 

Together, they’ve found a way to bond through art, she tells him as she flips the pages of the sketchbook she’s been carrying through their trek in the garden. 

He stares at her work in awe. Flowers, sceneries and animals in pastel and watercolor. “Woah. These are wonderful,” he remarks sincerely. “She grooming you to be a painter like her?”

“It’s just a hobby,” she smirks. “It’s funny, but I think I’d like to be more like Hugh when I grow up.”

“You want to be a scientist?”

“An epidemiologist. O-or, someone that creates vaccines, like...”

_Like your real parents, except not evil._

“You know what I mean,” she shrugs. 

“I think I do,” he responds. “Not a bad dream. I’m sure you’ve got the brains for it.”

“I sure hope so,” she says. “I just want to be able to help, you know. With all the things that’s happened... I feel like I should be doing something about it. But painting’s helped me a lot, too. It helps me cope in a lot of ways.”

They sat on a bench in front of the fountain. She flips the sketchbook to a page bursting with warm colors. 

The image hit him like a ton of bricks. 

“I’m sure you remember it as vividly as I do,” she laughs. 

Of course he does. He was just thinking about it a while ago. 

The sun rising in the east against thick, white clouds that covered the blue sky; a lone road amidst the vast prairie, the mountains visible in the horizon. It’s where they swung their hands together, where they talked about puppies and parrots, where they walked to a new beginning after the end of a nightmare. 

“When Raccoon was destroyed, my past was destroyed with it. When we split up— I had nothing but memories of our time together. Stefanie says that with art, I can recreate things. I can bring things to life so they wouldn’t stay in my imagination.”

She flips the page again, this time to a couple of more sombre-looking artworks in greyscale. 

On one page is a view from the back of a car, with two figures in the front— one on the wheel, wearing a ponytail, the other on the passenger seat, staring outside the window; their hands visible in gap in the middle, laying on top of each other. 

On the other page is a view from the corner of a room, two figures sitting by the foot of a bed on the other corner, right in front of a television— a woman resting her head against the shoulder of a man, who had an arm wrapped delicately around her waist. 

They’ve always waited for her to fall asleep before sharing tender moments as such, chaste as they were. Apparently she’d stayed awake to witness some of it. Not that that was bad or awkward at all. He and Claire both knew that there was more to her teasing and curiosity. She was, after all, a very lonely girl who never experienced warmth and belongingness before they came along. 

She was, and it hurt him to admit even to himself, the unluckiest of them all. 

“I’ve given a lot of my paintings to Claire. I wanted to give these to you,” she continues, referring to the greyscale paintings. 

_Please don’t ask if we’re boyfriend and girlfriend._

“She said you’re no fan of too much decoration or busy colors,” she continues, “So I thought maybe I’d give something less vibrant. I didn’t know where to send them, so I’ve just been waiting for you to come...”

“But I never did.”

She shrugs and cast her eyes down. “Well, she said you’re always busy—

He shakes his head firmly. “I have been. But it’s still my fault. I-I wish I’d seen you sooner. I’m sorry it took me this long.” He hunches over on his seat so their heads were leveled and their eyes met. “Let me make it up to you.”

“You promise...?”

He nods. “I promise. I’ll come as often as I can. We’ll take vacations. We’ll go anywhere you like. With your parents’ permission, of course.”

“Okay,” she says meekly. “There is one place I do want to go to.”

“Shoot.”

“Home.”

He gives her a puzzled look. “You mean Rac—

“Me. And Claire. You were gonna take us to your home.”

She closes the sketchbook and grins at his blindsided face. “Let’s pick up where we left off, shall we?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I went AU there, but I just can’t stand the idea of Sherry surviving all that she had only to be entrusted to the care of Derek Simmons. Sherry (and Leon by extension— he took the job for her after all) deserve so much better.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m not dead :’)

> Pucker up for heaven’s sake  
>  There’s never been so much at stake  
>  \- Every You Every Me, Placebo

**10:45**  
**Wednesday**

The last time he was home was several months after his first and only day as a police officer. 

Home. Only dad lives there now. He’d always disagreed with his career choice, that old man Sean.

He can’t blame him. He had bigger dreams and better plans for him, just like any other parent. First he said that he should be an accountant. Then he decided that his son’s too good for that and said he’d make a good commercial pilot. Or a ship captain. He harped on excitedly about how his son would be great at operating some type of vehicle. Never mind that the car had a new dent every time he borrowed it, or that he had hit the garage door more than once from both inside and outside. 

Subtly, he had always tried to pull him away from his wild dreams of fighting crime and saving the world one person at a time. It was out of good intentions and fear. He had no brothers or sisters. They really only ever had each other, somewhat distant as he was. Old man Sean remained passive and soft-spoken. He never pressured him or made him feel awful about his choices, at least not purposely. He never demanded, but he pleaded.

Twice he did. 

There was that time when he came home, in one piece and broken everywhere at the same time, from his first day on the job. Sean was never vocal or demonstrative, but that night he’d hugged him so tight that he knocked the wind out of his system. He choked as he pleaded to him over and over— _stay home, stay home and don’t you go back to the force._ He wasn’t, and his heart broke into a million pieces when he told him where he’s headed instead. 

He hasn’t paid a visit since then. The sorrowful look in his eyes and the shaking of his voice scared him and was rather too much for a kid who was always kept at arm’s length. 

Then there was that other time when he was seven after he found out that his mother is gone. Not dead, just quit. _Is that allowed?_ He had wondered out loud. _I’m sorry, Scoot, but it’s for the best, we gotta let it be,_ Sean said with feigned and unconvincing optimism, kneeling in front of him. He pleaded for him to understand. He pleaded for him to believe when he said everything was going to be okay. 

It wasn’t. He learned the awful truth that adults lie, even if they scolded and spanked the kids that did it. Adults lie to make other people and themselves feel good when they’re powerless to change things. Sean was his hero. And he let him down when he tried to come in and save the day. 

He loved him still. But he wasn’t going to do what he had done. He’ll make sure not to disappoint people. He’ll make things right in the world. He’ll tell people everything’s gonna be alright because it’s true, not because he has to.

So that he did in that beautiful moment when he, with two new companions, walked towards the sunrise after escaping death. It really was more than a pretty picture. It was the perfect ending to an epic, fit for heroes who fought against all odds to do the right thing.

If only the story ended right then and there. 

Fate was cruel. In the end, pulling a Sean seemed to be the only choice to save the day. He found himself kneeling in front of a broken child, lying to her face with bullshit even he didn’t believe, brandishing the exact same fake optimism. 

_It’s gonna be okay, Claire’s coming back, we’re gonna be a family again._

In that dark moment, as he knelt a bleeding, septic liar, there was nothing else in the entire world that he hated more than Claire Redfield. 

Everything wasn’t okay. At least for some time. Just like after Raccoon City, there was sunshine after the rain. The sad, broken girl with a bright future and brighter eyes now sitting next to him is proof of it. Her soft lips are curled into a tiny smile, but her eyes scan worriedly all over his face; she brings a hand up to lightly touch the fading bruises on his cheekbones and under his eye. She loves him despite him not showing his face for years. She missed him too much to act angry and hurt about it. 

She’s telling him, almost as if she secretly knows what he felt to the core, that he didn’t lie. Claire did come back. They can be a family again. 

All he has to do is believe it this time. 

Now she’s asking him to try.

So many broken ties to mend, so little time. 

And just like that his 45 days were up; the doctor would declare him fit to return to duty, and they’d waste no time sending him out there to play superhero. 

  
  


**16:39**  
**Saturday — Five Months Later**

The heater is running. The windows are sealed tight. Still, the cold crept in from the rain outside. He couldn’t decide if the steady pitter-patter of rain against the glass panes made him feel lonesome or content. He always loved the rain, the thunder even; yet it amplified the feeling of solitude that he constantly deals with, a feeling that’s been getting old if he’d admit it. 

Not that he’s alone right now.

As it was before, so it is now; she’d invited herself as soon as she found out that he’s back from his latest exploit.

“You’d never call anyone or ask for any help and if you’ve been laying here dead for days nobody would know,” she says, tearing open packages of gauzes. “Except for— whatsherface? Hartigan?” 

“Hunnigan.” 

He’s sitting on the edge of the bed. She’s facing his back, her breaths tickling his nape as she inspects the fresh set of wounds. He sees her extend a leg to the end of the bed to pull the trash bin closer with her foot. Her toenails are painted a dusty rose color. 

“Whoever did your wound care last time did a lousy job,” she complains, “Too much tape— it’s a mess.”

“Just take an alcohol pad and wet the ed _aaAAWW_!” 

“What a baby,” she chides, tossing a bloodied gauze in the trash. 

“You’d make such a bad nurse,” he covers his face with a hand, already preparing for the next one. 

“For bad patients? I agree,” she responds. “I bet you didn’t take your painkillers an hour ago per my instruction.”

She knows him so well.

Rip. 

“Suck it up, buttercup.” 

He blows air out of pursed lips. 

Honed by experience, her warm hands work quickly and efficiently. She dabs antiseptic on them, gently this time, as he hisses and holds his breath. She discards bloodied dressings in the trash, letting the wounds breathe a little before slapping fresh ones on. 

That’s always been her way of checking up on him. Completing a mission always meant a visit days after, complete with an inspection of his medicine cabinet to see what’s prescribed; a session over coffee (or liquor, depending on what the mood calls for) regarding the birth of new nightmares, and of course, an inspection of his body to assess the damage. 

He’d let her inspect his body in more ways than that, for a whole other purpose, but that’s not exactly what just best friends do. 

_You’ll always be my best friend._

The words had racked every single one of his brain cells to understand its meaning. Some days, they made the blood in his veins boil in despair and protest. Other days, they made him feel the relief that comes with finality. It all comes back around in the end. She’d endured dealing with both halves of himself, one who’s starved for affection, the other scared and overwhelmed by it; now it’s his turn to suffer in silence and confusion, to reap what he had sowed as it should be. The months that rolled by that he had spent not running to her comfort made it somewhat easier to stomach: it meant exactly what it meant. 

He’s her best friend. There really isn’t anything more to it. 

Hasn’t he always been, though?

Hence, he can still tell her stories behind every wound, every close encounter with death— he can still tell her about the nightmares that come right after, all the death he’d witnessed and failed to stop, and how it ate at him every second that he’s awake.

And now, after one brave decision on his part, he can tell her stories about the girl they both love, the paintings she’d created and how he’s got five of them now, and how she made a request so special that no amount of bad blood between them could ever prompt either of them to turn it down. 

At least that’s the case on his end. He ought to find out if the same is true on hers. 

“She wants to go on a trip.”

Her hands remained busy and she remained silent, but he could feel her tense up from behind him as she worked. 

“Sherry. She— she wants me to take us home.”

Us. 

Now her hands have stopped moving. 

“I couldn’t tell her no,” he continues, “I said, it’s hard, with us being apart all the time, and you know what she told me? She said, this trip is happening one way and one way only— with all three of us there— or it doesn’t happen at all. And I just sat there in front of her thinking, man... what happened to the timid girl I used to know?”

He smiles, so wide and heartfelt, if she could even see it. 

“Never thought I’d see her be so assertive like that. She looks healthy. And confident. There’s a lot going for that kid.” 

“Because of what you’ve done to get her there,” she tells him softly, resuming her work on his injuries. “She don’t know it yet, but someday she will.”

Maybe he couldn’t make everything alright, but he sure as hell gave up everything and tried.

For what seemed like eternity, she patches him up in silence, the air around them thick with tension, apprehension and suppressed emotions threatening to erupt at any moment. 

Any moment now. 

“Let me take you home, Claire Bear.”

She stops yet again. 

Without thinking, his hands reaches for her forearms, pulling them gently to his front so they’d loop around him in a loose embrace; he glides his palms over the back of her hands so their fingers lace together. 

“Let me introduce to my father the woman who kept me from falling apart all these years.” 

All that wasted time dancing around a conclusion that always ended in him running far away, yet he always gave in to come back and repeat the cycle. 

He’d been rejected, shunned, forgiven and put in his place. He was going to lose her forever. He was quite the expert at dealing with the feeling of losing someone he cares for. At least that’s what he thought— until that someone became her. 

Gently yet firmly, after a few seconds, she rests her forehead against his back. 

“Yes.”

He feels his lips tremble as they curl up into a smile. “Tell me— promise me, you’ll join us? You’ll take this trip with us?” 

He feels her mouth moving against his skin, her breath warm as she speaks the words, “I’ll be there. I won’t be going away. Not this time. 

... And you?”

He lifts her right hand that he’s holding on his own and kisses the back of it lightly. 

“As long as we stick together, we’ll be fine, remember?”

Best friends, indeed. 

They weren’t bad at it. Pretending to be just best friends— now that’s a different story.

They silently agree on the matter as his thumb strokes her hand, tender as the languid kisses her lips trace across the bare skin of his back. 

  
  


**17:22**

They couldn’t stop themselves from acting out their agreement on the matter. 

Their breathy mewls fill the room, drowned out by the sound of the storm outside, perfectly loud and clear to the ears of one another. 

Her hands played with his hair, alternating between gently running her fingers through them to grabbing fistfuls firmly as he smothers her neck and jawline with demanding kisses. He moves downward to worship her perfect breasts with his wet, hungry mouth. Her taut nipples felt hard on his tongue. A needy moan escapes her throat after every suckle, coaxing him to go on and on; but other parts of her needed his attention, and each thrust of her hips told him what needed it most. 

A bit forcefully, he pushes her left leg sideways to expose warm, wet lips waiting to be broken in. He swoops down to run his tongue from bottom to top. She was equal parts sweet and salty on his palate; he savored every bit, parting her lips for more, his other hand stroking his length. She throws her head back in bliss. She tightens her grip on the sheets. He feels her pulsating, gushing and dripping more of her essence straight into his mouth, his tongue busy stroking the bud between her folds.

Before she was able to come down from her peak, he comes back up to enter her, slick and hot and welcoming. 

He fucks her. Hard. Fast. Steady. 

This is not what _just_ best friends do. 

Who are they kidding? 

Months of restraint and denial had not snuffed out the flames at all. They tried. They failed. And while it was healthy and necessary to create the much needed distance, they both came to accept that none of them really wanted to let go. 

Out of breath and coaxed by her desperate whimpers, he curses through gritted teeth and releases himself inside of her. Delighted in feeling the warmth dripping between her legs, she keeps them parted for him to see after he pulls out from inside of her. He brushes his fingers along her lips coated with his seed.

His eyes shift to her face to stare at her intently. Her face is flushed and beaming with content. Her rosy lips are widened into a tender smile. 

He lays back down right next to her without taking his eyes off of her. 

“It’s gonna be a long drive, kiddo, and it won’t be me behind the wheel.”

“Oh I know. We all wanna get there alive.” 

“It’s always fucking freezing out there. You’ll be stuck inside the house making awkward conversations with the old man.”

“Is he as grouchy and morose as his son?”

“Not at all. He’s polite and formal and will bore you to death.”

“Not if I ask him to share embarrassing stories of you.”

“Hah. Last chance, Redfield. It’s not too late. You’re really ready for this?”

“... I’ve been ready since the day I returned.”

 

**21:24**

He gets up for a glass of water— a ritual of his before bed. 

The cat walks gracefully across the lowboy, looking like a tiny, nimble werewolf with its long, grey fur illuminated by the moonlight. It passes the cordless phone, prompting him to look at it. He feels the sudden urge to call the girl and tell her that her wish is coming true. 

Ultimately, he decides that it could be done in the morning. Nothing would make it all the more convincing than hearing both of their voices on the phone. That, and it’s probably past her bedtime. 

He steps out in the wet, cold balcony to light a cigarette instead. He’d traded the regular shots of bourbon and whiskey for a third of a pack a day. Not better, but it wouldn’t kill him any faster than a day at work will, nor would it prompt him to make any more stupid decisions than what he already had. 

Again, his thoughts lead him to home. 

Time always seems to move a little bit more slowly in that part of the globe. 

The people are always polite and chatty. The air’s always fresh and cool. The birds always sang their melodies in the morning; the katydids sang theirs at night, he’s sure, as they always did when he was seven, when he listened from inside the house because it wasn’t permitted to be outside in the dark. It’s all the same thing all day every day. Nothing ever happens in that sleepy town, and it’s only natural for a boy who wants to save the world to move out and look for some other place that needed saving.

 _Be careful what you wish for._

His mind wanders and wanders as the stick between his fingers gets shorter and shorter. 

Years ago, one of them had said with such hope and fervor— as long as we stick together, we’ll be fine. Funny how that person who said it was the last to believe it, but it didn’t matter, as long as he finally did in the end. It was all it took to make it completely true. It’s been a long time coming— and now that missing piece of the puzzle had returned, had come home. 

The pieces are all bent and broken. They’re fraying around the edges and worn out. They’re scarred and unpretty. They’re damaged. But when joined together, they still fit perfectly. 

All that baggage and all that trauma. All that time apart that gave way to new experiences without each other. All the differences in their paths and decisions. They were a lonely bunch, all three of them— a young man so brave and idealistic who the world had let down, a young woman who’s only family had vanished without a warning, a neglected orphan who lost everything in a doomed city— they’ve found each other in the worst of circumstances so they can all be less lonely in the company of each other. 

They’ll all fit in that car perfectly, belonging together as they did before, cruising down the interstate on the way to a sleepy, backwater town that hopefully will never need any saving. 

Their stories aren’t done. There’s more pain and heartache and destruction on the way. There would be no repairing the damage that they’ve taken, no erasing the scars that had formed and will form. But just like before, when he was at the brink of death, all he ever needs to do is remember the words she had spoken that night: 

None of that makes them unworthy of love. 

All it really takes is for them to give each other a chance. 

Maybe he’s still guarded and afraid.

Maybe she’s still hurt and cautious. 

Maybe they’re fools (they certainly have been). 

Maybe they belong together despite it all. 

They’re about to find out. 

The door swings open, revealing her clad in one of his old shirts, her hair up in a messy ponytail. 

“Where’d you put my toothbrush?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who supported this fic. Your kudos, your comments, the bookmarks, seeing them makes my day every time, and your appreciation keeps me going. Much love <3


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